


Life, Love, and the Space Between

by Staganddragon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco likes reading romance novels don't tell him I told you, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Post-War, Roommates, but don't tell anyone I don't want to give spoilers ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:15:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Staganddragon/pseuds/Staganddragon
Summary: The students are back at Hogwarts for their eighth and final year, but things are different. Now, Harry, Draco and Ron all bump elbows while brushing teeth, Draco's developed an affinity for muggle literature (romance novels to be exact), Harry's quill is always scratching away at his damned journal that remains a secret from everyone but himself, and then, of course, there's the ghost of the girl with some tricks up her sleeve...





	Life, Love, and the Space Between

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is not much as it's only the intro to this fic, but I hope the summary is enticing enough to pique your interests as I update. Enjoy!

### September 1, 1998

#### Mira

She feels heavy. Not in a physical sense - gravity seems to have forgotten about her now; her toes dangle inches above the ground and she finds herself able to maneuver around corners and speed down long, cramped corridors simply by leaning slightly - but her chest feels cold and damp. She has been asleep for a long time, dreaming of white and green light and echoing laughter and running… She never thought she’d be able to stop running…

Everywhere she looks seems to be just out of her reach - walls and and picture frames and pieces of furniture are silhouetted with a blue static, but she only wishes she could grasp it. Feel the prickly sensation skim across her fingertips, see sparks… But her hand only slips right through everything that’s solid, and she’s chilly. 

She roams the empty halls, solemnly nodding to the other blue and silver people she passes, thinking about where she was before she came here.  
She was… Not here, but somewhere near here, maybe a couple corridors over or inside an abandoned classroom, hiding. A bearded man with broad shoulders and a bloodied lip found her, pointed, bang… Green light and not enough time to take one more breath… Black.

She counts what she knows on her fingers. One: She is Mira. Two: She is - or was - thirteen. Three: When she was killed in battle, she was offered a choice. She could either come back as a ghost, or continue to the afterlife. She doesn’t remember deciding, but she supposes…  
Four: She has returned to Hogwarts as a ghost, and it appears that not many others who were killed have followed suit. She wonders how they are. Her friends, that is. She hopes they’re okay. She hopes they’re happy. She hopes they survived. She watches her once toffee-colored hand trace along the cracks of the vast stone wall and tries to imagine how it might feel. Heavy. Firm. Safe.

She does not yet feel safe.

#### Harry

Harry has said few words since boarding the train to come back to Hogwarts for the first time since May. The remainder of the summer sun pushes reluctantly through the windows, but it does not offer him warmth. His hands are stiff, and he clenches and releases his fists before taking a quill and a journal out of his rucksack. He has not yet made his entry for today. 

_“September 1st._

_On the train to Hogwarts. It’s empty and quiet and Ron’s fallen asleep on Hermione. She’s reading something by Hemingway out loud and playing with his hair.  
Molly sent me off with a block of chocolate and some old book she likes, and the chocolate was Lupin’s favorite…_

_Teddy’s with Andromeda. Got a letter from her the other day, says I can have partial custody once I graduate. A little bit scared, if I'm honest. Almost to school, check in later._

_P.S. Malfoy showed up. Glared at me through the window. Even though I testified for him. What a fucking git. I feel bad for him. Kinda lonely, it seems. But it’s lonely to be me, too, so. I still think he’s a prat. Just a sad, lonely prat._

He writes more now, once a day at least. He worries he’ll forget things if he doesn’t. Worries that, perhaps, if and when something bad does happen to him, that Teddy won’t have anything to remember him by except a broken snitch and false newspaper headlines regarding various scandals and potential love interests.

Harry lets out a long-held breath and puts his quill behind his ear, slumping down in his seat and waffling his hands across his stomach. His eyes settle lazily on Hermione. She’s folded into herself, nose buried in her book, as her read-aloud voice steadily becomes more and more hushed. She finally nudges Ron’s head off her lap and coils her knees up to her chest, making herself as small as possible for a story that, Harry assumes, has become too big for her to digest out loud. He wishes he could lose himself like that, but he’s stuck in the middle of his head and the horizon is far out of reach.

“Alright, mate?” Ron asks sleepily, extending his long arms into the air and stretching theatrically. His jumper rides up about his belly button when he does and Harry notices the sleeves are looking a tad short on him. He’s certainly filled out. He looks more like himself than he ever has, Harry concludes. 

“Sure,” he replies, leaning over to rest his head on the window and looking out at the trees blurring past. They’re close now; Harry recognizes this part of the journey and, despite what he has been through the last several years, the small flame of the excitement he experienced as a kid ignites in the pit of his stomach. He grins. “Think we’ll still room together this year?”

Ron pulls an apple out of his bag and rubs it on his jumper. “Don’t see why not,” he says, holding the apple up close as though to inspect it before finally taking a bite. “‘S been six years, has it not? Aren’t there only six guys here for eighth year, anyways?”

Harry frowns. Only six. He knows a lot of people turned down Mcgonagall’s offer for an eighth year of education. He doesn’t blame them. If Ron and Hermione weren’t here, he’d be back at the Burrow tending to Molly’s garden and drinking by himself. At least with them here, they could get drunk alongside him.  
He wishes more students were granted the opportunity. A lot weren’t so lucky. The train is alarmingly emptier than has been in previous years, and it seems as though about half of the total student population consists of first and second years. Harry feels his breath catch in his throat and distracts himself from the loss by pointing out the appearance of the castle through the trees. 

“We’re here!” He announces, as though Ron can’t clearly see the rapidly approaching castle landscaped outside their window. He leans forward and nudges Hermione, who sniffs and scowls and does not look away from her book. “‘Mione, we’re here!”

“I know, Harry,” she replies evenly, eyes trained on her page. 

“Aren’t you going to look?” says Harry, wishing very hard that he could break through the window and catapult himself into his dorm; feel fresh, cool linens on his toes and nearly drown in his down pillows. 

Hermione flushes. “I’d like to leave some things to my imagination, thank you,” she says quietly. Ron tentatively reaches over to grasp her hand and pulls it into his lap, and understanding hits Harry hard and all of a sudden. 

This will be the first time they’ve been to Hogwarts since the war. They will walk down the very same corridors in which they fought and nearly died. They will eat in the same Great Hall in which they were forced to say goodbye to so many loved ones; to walk by the fateful place of Voldemort’s death every day for the whole year.

Harry braces himself for the unkind twist of his stomach that comes whenever he thinks about the war, but it doesn’t come this time. Because despite the fact that he is going to have to relive those memories, it’s not as if he doesn’t relive them every day already. Hogwarts, to him, is a place of grief and suffering, but his fond memories far outweigh the bad ones. Hogwarts is the closest thing he’s ever had to a home, and he cannot wait to return once more. 

The train begins to slow.

#### Draco

Draco’s head is on fire and the quiet thrum of the train is doing nothing to nurse his hangover. Everything about today is a disaster. What started as a celebration of the start of the year turned quickly into the acute awareness that he was incredibly and seemingly indefinitely alone, and he drank himself into a stupor. He woke up late and confused and almost missed the train. Luckily, the only thing he did miss was a button on his wrinkled white shirt. And then Potter and his friends were sitting on the train in _his_ car, and he was again forced to remember that he didn’t have a single person to turn to entering this year. Potter, the git, had friends, and Potter and his friends had friends, and their friends had droves of adoring fans, and all Draco got was pushed down by someone five years his junior as he made his way to the back of the train.

Draco sighs and tries to push the negativity of this morning out of his brain. The train is squealing to a halt and his mouth is already watering at the thought of what potentially might be awaiting him at the feast. He doesn’t care if he does not have anyone to sit with now or for any future meals - all he wants is for the throbbing pain of his hangover behind his eyes to quiet. 

He waits until it seems that the bulk of the students have left the train before pushing himself off his seat and making his way down the aisle. There are enough empty carriages that he has one to himself for the ride to the castle, and it occurs to him that he hasn’t said anything out loud for the whole day. He wishes he minded.

The carriage approaches the castle and he can already smell the aroma of the feast awaiting him inside. He wonders how many students can now see the thestrals pulling them. Keeping his head down, he ignores the shoves and poor attempts at tripping from students of younger years as he pushes his way through the doors of the Great Hall for the first time since the battle.

The room is magnificently decorated this year. Great banners adorned with the Hogwarts crest hang in each corner. The air above his head is filled with what Draco can only describe as tiny stars; diamonds full of magic that make him feel as though he is in the middle of the milky way. Empty dishes are everywhere, and Draco imagines them soon filling with roasted chicken, brussels sprouts, mashed potatoes, and all of his other favorite Hogwarts foods. And on the ceiling, rays of sunshine force their way through scuttling clouds. The whole hall radiates hope. He brings his gaze to the tables and his eyes move across the one on the far side of the room, the one at which he has eaten every Hogwarts meal since he was eleven years old, and sees that there is no Slytherin banner hanging above it. 

In fact, there are no house banners anywhere. 

Instead, there are only pictures of the Hogwarts crest hanging proudly above each table; brilliant streamers of yellow, blue, green and red run longways down each one and… well, no one knows where to sit now. The students bottleneck in the doorway, perplexed, and confused whispers start to cloud Draco’s ears. 

“Attention!” Professor - _Headmistress_ \- McGonagall’s shrill command brings a halt to all conversation, and everyone’s eyes are on her. Draco looks back at his feet, afraid that if he is to look into her eyes, he might turn into a pillar of salt.

“Welcome,” she begins grandly, voice booming, “to another year at Hogwarts.” she pauses dramatically. “As you can tell, the room looks a bit different this year, and I know you all may be wondering why that is. I can promise you that we are not eradicating the four houses.” The students let out a collective sigh of relief, and she chuckles, but soon grows solemn. “However, the war fought and won so few months ago has left a distinct division between many students. While you will still be sorted into houses, sleep in your house dormitories, and attend classes with other students of your house, your professors and I decided that if we are to promote house unity, we might as well do it over food. So please, students, sit wherever you like. Once the first years come up to the front, we will begin the sorting.” 

Draco finds his way to what used to be the Slytherin table, slumping down at the end and burying his head in his arms. Name after name is called, none of which he recognizes, or, for that matter, none of which he wants to make an effort to recognize. The sorting is over in record time and Draco wonders how many parents have sent their children to Beauxbatons, Durmstrang or even Ilvermorny for school after the devastating effects of the war. 

“-and then Ginny came home completely shitfaced drunk the other night, and I thought Mum was going to be sick, she was so angry. Almost didn’t let her come to school, only Ginny’s of age now so she can - Harry, what are you doing?”

Draco jerks his head out of his arms to the sound of what he can only guess as Potter plopping himself down in the seat across from him just as mountains of food materialize in front of his eyes. And then bushy-haired Granger next to him, and next to her, a reluctant-looking Weasley, and all three of them look exceedingly out of their element.

“Malfoy,” Potter nods curtly, dishing himself up a slice of cider ham and scooping up some sweet potatoes. There is a quill behind his ear and he doesn’t seem to notice the fact that a strand of hair has fallen across his forehead.

Draco blushes and nods quietly back, avoiding his eyes but making haste in filling up his plate as fast as he can. As if the headache from his hangover is bad enough, now he has to deal with the closest thing he knows to the physical manifestation of how he already feels. He scowls. “Potter,” he finishes, almost as an afterthought, and it comes out hoarse and quiet. That’s the first word Draco has said out loud all day. Perhaps in days; he spent nearly a week alone in the Manor as his mother decided she needed to get away from the place to which so many horrible memories dwelled. He doesn’t blame her.

The group eats their meals in silence, and despite their unsolicited presence, Draco still feels completely unattached.

#### Mira

Five: It is September first. She knows this because she can hear the hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware against dishes as students scrape up what’s left on their plates before readying themselves to head back to their dorms.  
Six: She was a Hufflepuff. And it floods back to her. Not everything, but she now remembers the overstuffed bean bag chairs in every hidden corner of the common room and the kettle that never seemed to run out of water, always ready to pour a cup of tea or cocoa. She remembers dimly lit Saturday mornings, when she and her friends would wake up early to watch the sunrise.  
She wonders if she can have friends when she is a ghost. Because so far, she observes, being a ghost is incredibly lonely.

#### Harry

“We have to _what?_ ”

“Oh, Mr. Potter, please calm down. You’ll be just fine. You’ll still have Ron.”

Harry, Ron, and Malfoy are all dejectedly slouching in overstuffed chairs in McGonagall’s office, and Harry can feel the burn of the stares coming from the portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses. The words are still ringing in his ears. Roommates. Malfoy. Harry and Ron and Malfoy. Roommates. Together.

_And they are expected to survive._

McGonagall explains to the three boys that since they are so very intent on promoting inter-house unity, and since there are five Gryffindor eighth year students with only one Slytherin, it wouldn’t make sense to simply give Draco a room of his own and house all five Gryffindors together. 

He offhandedly wonders if he got assigned his room because he ate with Malfoy.

Harry is kicking himself for sitting with Malfoy at the feast. Honestly, he did it because no one else seemed to want to be near him, and he thought he might be able to escape some of the attention if he did so. He was right that no one made the choice to sit near him, but hell if he didn’t glean far more attention from that show of amiability than he ever would have guessed.

To eat a meal with him in silence was one thing, but to room together? For the entirety of the school year? There’s no way in Merlin’s name that he will be able to make it through even a week, especially with Ron there, as well. Ron can barely look at Malfoy without trying to deck him. 

“-no ifs, ands, or buts about it,” she finishes, and Harry comes back down to earth. McGonagall’s hands are folded neatly on the desk in front of her and she is staring down her nose at him in a way that reminds him he is still just eighteen years old. Nothing but a child. A child who must learn to listen to people who only want what’s best for him, even though that’s all he has done for the last eighteen years, and now here he is: a war veteran who never learned how to figure out who he was for himself. Sad. Scarred. Numb. And now, apparently, roommates with none other than the likes of Draco Malfoy, and he doesn’t have even a hint of a choice in the matter. 

Harry looks over at Ron, who scowls at him but shrugs defeatedly, and at Malfoy, who is carefully avoiding McGonagall’s gaze by inspecting a spot on his shoe. He sighs. McGonagall is right. At least he still has Ron.

The boys are given the go-ahead to retreat to their rooms, and they do so in heavy silence. Harry’s chest is pounding, and he’s already going through protective charms he can cast on himself during the night. Not that Malfoy would be capable of doing something that might cause him harm, though there was the incident before sixth year… 

Harry shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the grudges he’s been holding against Malfoy since the end of the war. Malfoy saved his arse on more than one occasion. Harry saved his in return. Perhaps they could form a truce of sorts. At least make it through the year without cutting each other open in the bathroom or stomping on each other’s noses and leaving them for dead on the floor of a train. 

They approach their new, foreign portrait, one of a little toffee-skinned girl with black, curly hair, looking longingly up at the night sky, and say the password together: “Golden snidget.” The girl smiles, nods, and the portrait swings open, welcoming them to their new eighth year dormitory.

The room is set up like a small apartment. On the far left side of the room is a kitchenette with a kettle, a wood burning stove and an icebox. In the middle, a large sofa and two overstuffed chairs surrounding a glass-topped coffee table laden with various board games. And on the back wall are four doors: three bedrooms and what Harry assumes is a bathroom. Harry does not see a single item resembling or representing the Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw houses anywhere, and it’s odd. He knew eighth year would be different, but he can’t help but feel as though he is now in an odd limbo between professor and student. He’s being granted the freedom to live as he chooses within the parameters of this small abode, but at the same time, he doesn’t have a choice as to who he lives with. 

Harry heads over to the icebox while Ron and Draco presumably set out to figure out whose room is whose. It is full of fresh fruits, vegetables and every snack Harry could hope to find, and he wonders whether or not he will ever feel the need to go to the Great Hall for dinner now that he has access to this. 

Retrieving an orange, he ambles over to the only empty room and peeks inside. He freezes, stunned. The walls are lined with book-filled shelves, books with titles like “Quidditch for the Untrained Seeker” and “50 Moves You’ve Never Made on a Broom.” His bed, thoughtfully covered with deep, muted purple sheets and blankets, is laden with more pillows than Harry could have ever hoped for, and he flings himself onto the mattress, letting the feathery down swallow him whole.

If this is how it’s going to be for him, perhaps rooming with Malfoy won’t be such a bad thing, after all.

#### Draco

Draco shuts his door quietly behind him and presses back against it, heart and head pounding. This damn hangover. 

He is alarmed at how spent he is after such a small amount of time with people. Not even interacting with them, just existing in the same room while on different planes of reality. He felt lonelier then than he feels now with only his conscious, his trunk full of possessions, and his shelves lined with books about art and poetry and muggle romances. Kicking off his shoes, he falls back across his bed and closes his eyes. He does not open them until the following morning.


End file.
